An Urban Bluebell

One of the pieces of advice I received on the first writing course I attended was to make descriptions of place as selective and telling as possible.  If a room is a bedsit with grimy windows and an unmade bed, then you don’t need to go into each detail of the overflowing ashtray and the tide mark in the sink.

Every reader will have an idea of what a run down bedsit will look like, once you’ve put the basic idea in their mind’s eye, after that you need only mention the odd things, the things that diverge from that ‘expected’ picture, for example, if the sink has gold taps, or if there is a top of the range computer on the desk.

I often think of those gold taps in the imaginary bedsit whenever I notice something incongruous.  As a couple of days ago when I came across this little woodland grove.  It’s beside a busy road in north London, and as I was leaning over the wall to take the photos, buses and traffic roared along the street behind me, and passing pedestrians paused to watch what it was I could possible be photographing in that place.  There’s a story in it somewhere.

It’s a constant source of wonder to me how little bits of nature manage to flourish in even the smallest, most unlikely urban corners.  It gives truth to the belief that plants will outlast us all.

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  1. I loved the piece, the advice, and the sentiment. And the bluebells:)


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